


Let's go fly a kite

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, First Time, Fudge needs its own tag, OR IS IT, Post-Season/Series 03, Recreational Drug Use, this is a crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 17:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: “Miss Fisher?”“Yes, Jack?”He pointed at her cream-coloured feathered fascinator whilst narrowing his eyes.“Why is there a chicken on your head?”Also known as: 'Why Jack should never eat fudge.'





	Let's go fly a kite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Allison_Wonderland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allison_Wonderland/gifts).



> So this happened because Allison_Wonderland was working on a fic, and was wondering what colloquial term was in use during the MFMM era for ‘high.’ This led to thoughts about what would happen if someone slipped something into Jack’s drink, for a change. I may have mentioned something about ‘reading the crap out of a fic where something is slipped into Jack’s drink which turns him into a horny beast’/’Jack eats fudge and gets as high as a kite.’ Somehow this landed on me and I wound up having to write it myself -pouts-
> 
> This was supposed to be a crackfic. Instead, it is this. 
> 
> Many thanks to 221A_brina for beta-ing and for preventing me from making an arse out of myself (for about 5 minutes).

 

Phryne was covertly watching Jack from the corner of her eye. She had known the man looked good in a well-cut, pressed suit. She had seen him in formal evening wear before and knew he looked quite dapper in a white waistcoat. However, the sight of the dour detective _sans_ waistcoat would have her drooling, if she weren’t careful.

He wore a navy blue suit - the colour complimenting and bringing out his eyes - a crisp white shirt and the dark blue tie with intricate maroon and crème patterns that she’d come to think of as ‘her tie,’ ridiculous though it might sound. She told him that the evening’s dress was informal and although it irrationally irked her that he hadn’t simply shown up naked on her doorstep, she supposed she’d settle for this.

After her return to Melbourne about a month ago, Jack had insisted on doing the proper thing, the noble thing. Even though it had exasperated her (she wasn’t exactly known for her patience in these matters, or in any matter, really), she had conceded on the condition that she was allowed to take the reins if he reverted to his old ‘milk-cart’ ways.

He hadn’t reverted back to his former, impossibly deliberate ways but the milk was in danger of going sour and turning into yoghurt if she didn’t intervene soon. Not that her desire for Jack had been diminished in any way. If anything, she desired him even more so now than she ever had before. It was the tension between them, the way Jack balanced their passion on a knife’s edge that was equal parts exhilarating and frustrating.

There had been some marvellous kisses in her parlour, what she referred to as innocent above-the-belt petting, but that had been it. Every night he’d leave, coming up with some sort of excuse as to why he shouldn’t out stay his welcome.

It was slowly driving her insane.

Jack had insisted on doing this courting business properly, wanting to attend social gatherings with her as her ‘official partner,‘ to which she’d snorted in the face of his medieval sense of propriety and use of the word ‘courting.’ In the end, she had decided to humour him.

She had then waited for the moment to turn the tables on him and make his decision work in her favour.

It was time to take a firm hold of the reins.

The invitation to Isabella’s secret birthday party had truly been a godsend.

 

***

 

The ‘clandestine affair’ took place at an estate just outside of Melbourne, that was owned by a friend of Guy’s. After dinner at Wardlow, Phryne and Jack had been driven via cab to the location.

The ‘official soirée‘ would be held at Aunt Prudence’s residence, several nights hence, but as neither Guy nor Isabella were ones to stand on ceremony (or monogamy for that matter), they had decided to throw a secret party that was expected to be positively salacious.

The party was held in the gardens at the back of the manor. There were several white tents on the impressive lawn, and the trees had been decorated with white lanterns; there were pillows covering the roots of the trees, creating makeshift seating. A few small alcoves, overgrown with lush ivy, were situated on the outskirts of the property. As the estate was built at the foot of a rock formation, there was even a small lake, which had floating lanterns in it.

The entire setting looked positively magical.

Upon arrival, Phryne found it simply adorable that Jack was almost more enraptured by the sight of the beautiful garden than by the extravagant guests occupying it.

Part of her was decidedly pleased that she had managed to coerce a straight-laced Inspector like Jack into accompanying her to this night of impending debauchery. Another part of her had already come up with five quick ways to get him out of his suit, and another seven ways of having her way with him in the backseat of the taxi before their return to her home afterwards.

 

***

 

Jack knew, for a fact, that he was decidedly less excited about attending this party than Phryne. He was a cop, and the Inspector side of him was having a difficult time trying to turn a blind eye to some of the goings-on around him. But he quite enjoyed being Phryne’s companion and not having to be secretive about it; that feeling more than made up for his initial discomfort.

He felt himself puff up like bloody Collins every time she introduced him as her partner.

And she kept staring at him... like _that_.

Over the course of the past month, Jack had continued his slow but steady seduction of Phryne Fisher. Mainly because he loved the sensuous burn. He did, contrary to popular belief, not fear an all consuming fire. He _did_ , however, fear spontaneous combustion. He worried if they were to take things too fast, the spark between them might diminish or fizzle out. He wanted her to be aware of the true depth of his feelings for her, before allowing her to dive straight in unawares.

Another part of him felt that he’d waited long enough; it was this part that was at  constant war with his noble intentions.

 _Then…_ there was the fact that he simply loved teasing her, provoking her just to get a rise out of her.

She was adorably obnoxious when angry.

She was also an undeniably beautiful, intelligent, sensual and sexual being and the dress she was wearing this evening was driving him to utter distraction. It wasn't the most provocative creation by Madame Fleuri he’d ever seen her wear, but it was stunning all the same.

He corrected himself; _she_ was stunning, the dress simply looked beautiful because she was the one wearing it.

Phryne was dressed in a floor length, cream-coloured, backless gown made out of the finest silk damask. She looked so at home in this ethereal and enchanting environment; the light from the lanterns illuminated the almost glowing ivory patterns on her dress when she moved.

He wondered how this dress was considered to be informal or casual in any way, but he decided he quite frankly didn’t care. His fingers itched to trace the vertebrae of her spine all the way down until he would encounter the soft silk barrier of her dress, only to dip underneath the fabric to stroke the swell of her arse.

He coughed and took a hasty sip of his champagne. Phryne eyed him suspiciously. 

He leaned in sideways, discreetly mentioning having to answer the call of nature as they observed several dancing couples from the sideline. She nodded imperceptibly, admonishing him not to be too long. He noticed the playful glint in her eye and was just about to inform her that he would take as long as _needed_ , when one of the other guests spotted her, claiming her attention. She gave him a quick, apologetic look. He shook his head in amusement (nothing would ever change, would it?), and wandered off towards the house, his back to her.

He could feel her eyes burning holes in his backside as he went.

 

***

 

Passing the kitchen on his way back from his visit to the lavatory, Jack paused.

Mr. Butler had served them a delicious meal at Wardlow, but to be fair, it _had_ been more than an hour ago and Jack was starting to feel rather peckish. The hors d’oeuvres at this party were lovely, to be sure, but for the life of him, he didn’t understand why the upper classes were always so frugal when it came to the food they served. Half a tablespoon of duck confit was still only _half a tablespoon_ , and he supposed it would have been impolite to take more than one spoon off the tray.

Watching Phryne fervently and admirably cleaning her spoon of any remnants of confit with her delicate tongue while maintaining eye contact with him had been delicious in and of itself.

Upon entering the currently unoccupied kitchen he spotted a single plate on the windowsill. His stomach growled as if on cue, and he decided no one was likely to notice if he grabbed a quick nibble. He recalled one of the other guests had mentioned to Guy that the fudge was exceptional, and he had to admit he was rather curious to find out what, exactly, was so special about this particular treat.

The well to do were supposed to have good taste, weren't they?

 

***

 

When Phryne saw Jack stepping out into the garden, she was in deep conversation with Rosalind Blanchard, a rather unassuming but nevertheless very charismatic childhood friend of Guy’s. He waved at her from a distance, then signalled he was going for a stroll about the gardens.

She smiled. Dear Jack, always discounting himself, making himself scarce and quietly observing so that she could shine.

Engrossed in conversation and enjoying the champagne and the food, she noticed Jack returning to her about twenty minutes after he’d disappeared into the flower garden. Even though she’d assumed he would enjoy the rare orchids that were to be found there, he looked decidedly off as he sidled up to her. She politely broke off her conversation with Rosalind before turning to him, standing to the side.

“Jack, I’m sorry to say this but you don’t look at all well,” she said. Even though she promised herself to not fuss too much in public, she couldn't stop herself from checking his forehead for a possible temperature. His skin was rather pale, but his cheeks were very red and he seemed somewhat disoriented.

“Phryne, I’m fine, really,” he told her not unkindly, gently batting her hand away. “I’m just a bit nauseous, probably drank too much champagne,” he joked, licking his lips.

_Why was his mouth so dry?_

“You don’t _look_ fine, Jack.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She was about to rebut him when he swayed dangerously towards her, a spell of dizziness overcoming him. She grabbed him by the arm as realisation began to sink in.

Nausea, dizziness, smacking his lips, ruddy cheeks…

_Damn the man’s healthy appetite!_

“Jack, on your way to the toilet, did you happen to come across some particular confections?” she whispered in his ear, trying to steady him. She walked them in the general direction of the house, attempting to attract as little attention as possible as she knew that would irk him.

“I may have sampled some sweets, but honestly Phryne, I only took a small bite! If only these toffs would feed us properly then we’d—”

Evidently stoned Jack was also a sassy Jack.

“Just how small of a bite constitutes ‘a small bite,’ Jack?” she hissed exasperatedly. She was both worried and slightly amused at his unknowingly illegal behaviour as she managed to drag him into the house.

“About four pieces,” he admitted sheepishly.

“ _Four_ pieces?!” she exclaimed before she was able to stop herself, her voice echoing loudly in the entrance hall.

Suddenly he stopped walking; she was afraid he was about to be sick all over the antique carpet.

“Jack? Is something the matter?” She checked him over as he straightened himself, then managed to bring himself upright on his own two feet.

He gave her a look that said something was very much the matter; he fortunately seemed to be aware of his current condition.

“Miss Fisher?”

“Yes, Jack?”

He pointed at her cream-coloured feathered fascinator whilst narrowing his eyes.

“Why is there a chicken on your head?”

Then again, maybe not.

 

***

 

When Phryne stepped out into the cool night air at the front of the estate (after making her apologies to Guy and smacking him in the side of the head just for leaving the fudge _unsupervised_ ), Jack was already there. He appeared distraught, pacing back and forth on the gravel, clearly searching for something. She grit her teeth in preparation for whatever was next.

Oh, this night was _ruined_.

“Jack? What are you looking for? Did you lose something?” She quickly joined him, scanning the ground for any missing items.

He whipped his head around to look at her, eyes red and unfocused. 

“My bike!”

“Your...” _Ah_ , well, that explained the man’s ridiculously delicious thighs which she’d had the distinct pleasure of ogling on the beach in Queenscliff. Jack owned a bike. Evidently, he was rather fond of this bike and if he missed its presence this strongly, surely he must ride it often? She made a mental note to ask him about this later.

“Yes, yes, my bike. I’m sure I had it with me when I came here.” He sounded impatient and terribly put-out.

“Jack, love, I’m positive you didn’t.”

She stilled for a second, realising the endearment she’d used as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. She had to admit that it had been. Jack, however, failed to notice her temporary slip in his determined search for his imaginary bicycle.

“Phryne, I _did_ bring my bike. I’m not an imbecile.”

She shook her head in resignation, a small smile gracing her lips.

“No, Jack, you didn’t. However, you did just ingest a large amount of hashish-infused fudge and you are as high as a kite, Inspector.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it.

“And no, Jack, you didn’t bring a kite here, either.”

His mouth closed with an audible ‘snap.’

She chuckled.

 

***

 

Phryne had managed to drag Jack into their cab after convincing him they would come back to look for his bicycle in the morning.

She'd also pointedly ignored Guy’s barks of drunken laughter as he wished her “a good night indeed, Phrynekins!”

She could still feel the imprint of Jack’s hand as he’d smacked her arse when she had climbed into the cab, telling her to “Lay on, Macduff!”

Their ride home was uneventful, if she discounted the sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on the column of her throat that did absolutely nothing to dampen her desire for the usually inhibited Detective Inspector. Trying to ignore the hand that was inching its way up her thigh, she made small-talk with the cab driver, making it a point to memorise the number on his cap and his name. When they arrived at Wardlow, she left the driver a generous tip which hopefully would serve as a bribe.

If word got out that the Detective Inspector had been spotted being ferried about town in his current condition, the ramifications could be severe. Phryne promised the cabbie that if he even so much as breathed a word of this, she would hunt him down.

She calmly led a rather subdued Jack into the kitchen, hoping to avoid any possible scandal by entering through the front door of the house. She didn’t want anyone to see Jack in his current condition. She couldn’t be hanged when it came to scandal (frankly it never bothered her in the least), but she was determined to protect as much of Jack’s dignity and reputation as possible.

Upon entering the kitchen Phryne instantly regretted giving Mr. Butler the rest of the weekend off to visit his sister in Adelaide. He had boarded the night-train and was not to return to Wardlow for two more days. He would have known what to do. And if not, at least he’d had some firsthand experience with ingesting an overdose of the stuff, and would probably know just what Jack might need first thing the next morning.

Thank the heavens Jane was on a seaside holiday with one of her friends and family.

Phryne dropped her purse and stole on the kitchen table, and Jack followed suit, shrugging off his jacket and placing it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She was having a hard time pretending not to notice the definition of the muscles in his arms, that were now only covered by his crisp white shirt. As they watched one another, she had difficulty distinguishing who was predator, and who was prey.

She decided the best course of action for Jack would probably be a good night’s sleep. She was heading into the hallway, assuming he would follow her, when Jack suddenly pinned her against the wall at the bottom of the stairs. Her breasts were pressed against the cold wall and his broad chest was against her back.

 _Gods_ , he felt like an oven.

She desperately tried to ignore the urgency of Jack’s throbbing erection against her, but it was becoming increasingly difficult as he rubbed himself rather splendidly along the cleft of her buttocks. Bracing herself with her hands on the wall, she ground her arse against his arousal, undulating her hips until he bucked up against her, forcing a husky growl from his throat.

“Phryne,” he rasped, his breath hot in her ear, his large hands cupping her hips, slipping on the silk. “ _Phry-ne_. I want you. I want you naked. Do you understand?”

She did understand. In fact, his statement left no room for misinterpretation. But he was still under the influence, and she would _not_ take advantage of this situation, despite the fact that her body veritably screamed for his touch, his mouth, his cock.

Jack spun her around, then stilled, as if he’d momentarily forgotten who he was and why he was there.

 

***

 

He felt as though he was burning up, as if he was about to burst right out of his skin... and _good God_ , wherever she touched him... He felt... incredibly sensitive?

He noted (with sufficient male pride) that her eyes widened significantly when he all but ripped his tie from his throat, tossing it somewhere in the parlour, then set about loosening the buttons on the collar of his suddenly stifling shirt.

_Besides… why was he wearing this many clothes?!_

_Why was_ _she_ _still wearing clothes?_

He distinctly remembered telling her that he wanted her naked.

But... that wasn’t right, was it?

Phryne was a lady, a woman of class. He couldn't simply demand she undress for the likes of him. What had happened to romance, patience?

_Come on Robbo! You can do this! Fix this!_

_Make a proper romantic overture, man!_

“You really do have the most terrific set of tits I’ve ever clapped eyes on, Miss Fisher,” he stated in all seriousness, staring at said tits, then scrunched up his nose in confusion. That did not sound very romantic, did it? It was all very odd.

Phryne was about to correct him and tell him that he’d never actually seen her ‘tits’, before she recalled that he had been present for her fan dance. Then the realization hit her that Jack Robinson had actually acknowledged her breasts (let alone any other part of her body, for that matter), and she couldn’t stop herself from laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

Of all the things she had imagined, of all the seductions, of all the romantic overtures; this scenario was wasn’t one she’d even remotely considered.

He seemed terribly confused by her response, then yawned without even making an attempt to politely cover his mouth.

She sighed. Poor man. This was obviously not going anywhere. Not tonight, anyway.

She grabbed him by the hand - large, warm, and callused - and quietly led him upstairs.

 

***

 

Morning announced itself by way of a soft snore.

Phryne opened her eyes and was met with the sight of Jack Robinson, facing her as he slept on his side, still dead to the world. The sheet had slipped down his chest, and some rebellious chest hairs peeked out from the top of his white undershirt.

For all of the worry that was oft etched into his forehead during the day, for all of his frowns, for all of his usual reticence, Phryne had to admit that Jack looked utterly adorable and unguarded when he was asleep.

She’d divested him of his shoes, socks and trousers, while he had managed to assist in removing his shirt in an oddly unorthodox manner. She’d tucked him into her bed, still dressed in his undershirt and smalls.

He'd passed out as soon as his face hit the soft pillow. To assure herself, Phryne checked his breathing, then stripped down to her knickers and crawled under the covers on the other side of the bed. Though desperately longing to, she made a concerted effort not to touch him. For several shameless hours, she observed him, watching him as he settled into sleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing eventually lulled her into a peaceful slumber.

And if he had snuggled closer to her, occasionally spooning her as he dreamed, well, she was hardly the one to blame, now was she?

Upon waking, she was about to slake her curiosity and investigate whether _all_ parts of Jack Robinson were still fast asleep, when she was startled out of her naughty reverie by the shrill jolt of the doorbell.

Mr. Butler would surely answer the door any minute now.

She sighed as she proceeded to lift the sheet...

A knock on the door, this time.

_Oh. Right. No butler._

She dropped her head on her pillow. No! No visitors, not today! Though her carefully laid plans to get Jack between her sheets had been thwarted last night (which, well... technically he _was_ , though not quite as unclothed as she would have preferred…) she had hoped that morning might bring an opportunity to correct that.

The noise continued. Someone was now simply and annoyingly ringing the damn doorbell non-stop.

Jack did not even stir; she supposed he was still suffering from the after-effects of the ingested hashish.

She decided to let him slumber for a bit longer, as he currently resembled an immovable object anyway. She got up from the bed to answer the door, putting on her favourite black silk embroidered robe as she tiptoed out of the bedroom. As she descended the stairs, potential homicide flitted through her head as a viable option in regards to the unknown visitor.

 

***

 

When Phryne opened the front door, the sight that greeted her made her immediately regret her decision to leave the comfort of her bed and Jack. She loved her aunt dearly, but the woman simply had the most ghastly timing. Or, depending on who’s point of view, perhaps it was rather impeccable, depending on what her aunt was setting out to accomplish.

“Do not prevaricate, girl,” her Aunt Prudence ordered as she sat herself down on the chaise in Phryne’s parlour without invitation.

Without much preamble, Prudence had demanded to know what Phryne had been thinking, before they moved into the parlour for some privacy. She found herself, sitting opposite her aunt, preparing to face the barrage of questions.

“Honestly, Aunt P, I have no idea what you are referring to,” Phryne teased, having a vague inkling what her aunt was rambling on about. Apparently someone had lagged about Jack’s encounter with Guy’s special fudge. She was already mentally paging through the list of possible culprits. Guy was, of course, most definitely positioned at the very top of that list.

Prudence pursed her lips.

“What I am referring to, dear girl, is the fact that you showed up at a rather,” Prudence struggled to find the right words, “ _questionable_ soirée, one of a, no doubt dubious nature. And not only that, but you brought Detective Inspector Robinson to accompany you. Now, what have you to say for yourself?”

Phryne opened her mouth to answer, but Prudence was already speaking again.

“I mean, honestly Phryne! I do realise my son’s appetites may sometimes stray towards the sordid side of things… For you to show up at this event is one thing, but to corrupt such an upstanding member of the community, let alone an officer of the law in the process is just--”

Evidently, no one had mentioned Jack’s trip into the unknown to her aunt. Phryne was still processing the fact that Prudence seemed more concerned about Jack’s reputation for simply being in attendance rather than the fact that he had accompanied Phryne as her ‘official date,‘ when she noticed her aunt was squirming uncomfortably in her seat. She was on the verge of asking her aunt what was the matter when Prudence pulled a piece of fabric out from under her skirt.

Mrs. Stanley opened her mouth, no doubt to question the presence of a gentleman's tie on her niece’s chaise longue, when Jack unceremoniously stumbled through the open parlour doors, clearly on a wild goose chase in search of the missing articles of clothing that were part and parcel of his usually impenetrable suit of armour. Articles of clothing that were currently strewn about her house.

“Phryne, I--” Jack started, then paused when he spotted Prudence Stanley seated in the parlour.

_Was that part of his tie in her hand? The rest of which seemed to disappear under her skirt?_

Prudence clutched her pearl necklace in alarm, startled by Jack’s unexpected and sudden arrival. As the older woman took a moment to compose herself, Phryne shamelessly ogled this decidedly rumpled version of the Detective Inspector, barefoot and leaning against the doorframe of her parlour. His shirt was unbuttoned, leaving his undershirt exposed. Her mouth watered at the sight of his nipples; two small, dark circles beneath the fabric. His creased trousers hung loosely on his hips, as his braces had been ruined the previous night. Errant curls had flopped onto his forehead and she longed to run her fingers through his unruly waves.

“Inspector,” Prudence spoke by way of greeting, visibly shaken, though there was an unspoken question in that one word, and a demand for an explanation as to why he was here.

She then reached out to hand him his tie, uncomfortably squirming to dislodged the remainder, which had been under her bottom only moments before.

Phryne seemed rather amused by this latest development.

Jack swallowed audibly as he took the proffered item from Mrs. Stanley’s outstretched hand and hung it around his neck.

 

***

 

After ushering her aunt out the door on the promise that she would go over for lunch the next day to sort things out, Phryne closed the front door and locked it. Aunt P had not actually voiced her disapproval of Jack’s presence in her home or of his attendance at the party as her partner, and as it stood, Phryne suspected the old battle axe might actually have a bit of a soft spot for the Inspector.

When she turned around to find Jack staring at her from the parlour doorway, he quickly averted his eyes.

“Was this your doing?” he asked almost shyly, blushing feverishly as he fussed with the few remaining buttons on his shirt, pointedly _not looking at her_ , let alone anywhere in her general direction.

It struck her how large his fingers were in comparison to the small buttons. She couldn’t find it in her heart to be cross with him for his harmless accusation. Especially as she _had_ intended to ravish him last night and probably _would have_ ruined the shirt for the sole purpose of finally divesting him of his suit. The fact that he was following her train of thought was promising, indeed.

“I’m afraid not, Inspector,” she pouted. He slowly raised his head, looking at her in silent contemplation, encouraging her to continue. She was more than happy to. “In a hasty attempt to rid yourself of your clothing, you ripped your shirt open. It was a rather barbaric, but nonetheless very exhilarating, spectacle. One that I was utterly delighted to witness.”

If at all possible, the poor man blushed even more, a wash of red reaching the tips of his ears.

“Now, don’t fret, Jack,” she placated, sauntering up to him and placing a hand on his restless one, the one that was still fiddling with the horridly ruined shirt. “I’m sure Mr. Butler would be more than happy to reattach those buttons for you, once we find them. Or I could ask Dot to--”

“No! I mean, don’t ask Mrs. Collins. I wouldn’t want to trouble her.” He stepped back, creating some space between them.

“You mean you don’t want me to embarrass the both of you with stories about your lovely rendition of _King Kong_?”

He glared at her. She smirked back at him, victory written all over her bare, graceful features.

They stood in silence for a moment, quietly observing one another.

“Phryne?”

Gods, her name always sounded _divine_ when rolling off of his tongue. She wanted to hear it over and over again. She wanted to taste it on his tongue. And feel it on his lips.

“Yes, Jack?”

“Did... did you— _God_ , I sound like Collins,” he grimaced, rubbing his tired face with his hand. “Did you call me ‘love’ last night?” he blurted out.

She swallowed. She’d rather hoped he wouldn’t remember _that_ particular detail in the morning.

Then again, she was Phryne Fisher, and she never did things by halves.

“Why, I believe I did, Jack.”

He smiled. Not that small smirk she adored, the one that tugged at the corner of his mouth, but a real and full smile that lit up his face, instantly making him appear years younger.

“The question is, Inspector; what are you going to do about it?” she demanded archly, hoping to disguise some of the apprehension she felt at her own confession. By his raised eyebrow and the slight twitch of his mouth she could tell he had seen right through her ruse. _Damned detective_.

He shrugged, then locked eyes with her.The look of intent in them was unmistakable and she shivered.

“I can think of a number of things, Miss Fisher,” he said, his voice deepening even further.

A flood rushed downwards, instantly ruining her knickers at the sound of his impossibly low rumble. Really, she thought, he was getting _this close_ to having to arrest himself for indecency.

However, she wasn’t going to let him walk away from this conversation, thinking he’d pulled one over her. It was time to use her ace.

“How utterly intriguing, Inspector! A number of things? Well... I _do_ believe you were rather taken with my – what did you call them? – ah, yes, my ‘terrific tits’.” Her lips quirked despite her attempts at keeping a straight face. She approached him until they were standing chest to chest, barely a breath between their bodies.

In retrospect she supposed she could have known – and had perhaps hoped – that Jack would call her bluff.

He always did.

“Why, I believe I was, Miss Fisher,” he quipped, before boldly and unexpectedly slipping his hand inside her silk robe to palm her small breast in his hand. She gasped, then pushed her breast more firmly into his palm, eliciting an answering swirl of his thumb, which was now teasing her hardening nipple.

He could feel her heartbeat, steady but increasing, just beneath her warming skin.

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” he whispered in her ear as he pressed his unshaven cheek against her smooth one, the gesture somehow far more intimate than having his hand on her breast. The tips of her sleep tousled hair brushed his sharp jawline.

“Always, Jack,” she breathed, and she meant it.

“I still am,” he admitted, laughter on the tip of his tongue as he teased her earlobe with it. “I find myself quite taken with your ‘terrific tits,’ _and_ with your tantalizing thighs. And I am _especially_ fond of your delectable derrière.” As if to prove his point, he moved his hand from her breast, over her robe and down her back to cup a rounded globe.

“Jack Robinson!” she exclaimed, feigning a scandalized tone as she lightly slapped his chest in reprimand before melting against his lean frame, clasping her hands behind his neck. “Are you sure you’re no longer under the influence?”

“Oh, but I am, Miss Fisher. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid I must confess to an addiction.” His hand never moved away from her arse.

“Really?” He nodded solemnly in silent reply, and she traced the pout on his lush lips with her forefinger. “Poor man. Is there no cure?”

He scoffed lightly, making a face at her. She smiled at him as she removed her intrusive digit. His face was serious when he spoke.

“I’m afraid not. You see, this drug has, in the past, taken me to the lowest of lows. But it always intrigued me, and I found I could not stay away. And as of late, I find it only takes me to the highest of highs, until I feel as though I’m flying. I have never experienced anything like it in all of my life.”

“Jack...”

“This addiction... it has gotten under my skin, somehow,” he continued, chuckling softly, the sound going straight to her heart. “It took me completely by surprise... although it was never exactly _subtle_ in its seduction.” She pinched his irresistible nipple through his undershirt for that one. He hissed, narrowing his eyes at her even though his pupils were blown wide, belying his desire for her.

He took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m falling, Phryne, and at the same time, I have never flown quite so high.”

His strong hand cupped her jaw; when she looked into his eyes, she found nothing there but the love that was undoubtedly mirrored in her own. She could feel tears prickling in the corners of her eyes. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat.

“And are you flying high right now, Jack?” she whispered against his lips.

He kissed her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic was derived from a Mary Poppins-song (kudos to all of you who knew this).
> 
> Phryne is wearing a dress that I modelled after [this one](https://shopmorphew.com/products/1930s-backless-bias-cut-silk-damask-gown). 
> 
> I imagine the garden must have looked something like these images:  
> [This is a garden.](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB10t3tcDZRMeJjSspnq6AJdFXaH/Twinkling-light-photo-backgrounds-garden-party-fabric-photography-backdrop-for-kids-portrait-photo-studio-camera-fotografia.jpg_640x640.jpg)  
> [This is another one.](http://loveatope.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/01/empresas-wedding-planner-huelva-copia.jpg)
> 
> The book King Kong was written in 1932, so it’s close enough to the timeline that I feel I can get away with that reference.
> 
> I researched different words for ‘breasts’ that were in use around the 1920’s. One that came up often was ‘bubs’, and I’m sorry but I HATE that word. I went with ‘tits’ instead because Jack is as high as a kite and I want him to say ‘tits’. But for the record: I did do the research, and decided to ignore the results. That’s how science works.


End file.
